Thunder & Knight
by see180movie.com
Summary: They couldn't be more different... Gotham's dark, deadly guardian of the night. Asgard's radiant, celebrated crown prince. But when a king's decree collides their worlds, both Thor and Bruce must discover the place where light and darkness meld. For there are shadows that neither Dark Knights nor Thunderbolts can conquer. (All formatting errors now fixed!)
1. Knight on the Town

It wasn't as though this was the first time he'd had to undergo this ordeal. Not the first time he'd been forced to play the part, put on the mask...

Or, he thought wryly, act the fool.

Gotham City was not a lady who enjoyed a decent spell of peace and quiet. No, she was constantly stirring murky waters, begetting psychopaths and lunatics to haunt every dark alley...

That is, when she wasn't raising up brilliant and devilish minions to wreak their schemes in the broad daylight.

A never-ending battle, he brooded. The Knight's gloved hands ran absently over the keys of his computer.  
He'd been working at those keys, it seemed, for weeks to penetrate yet another one of Rupert Thorne's air-tight black market plots. The police had been at it too, "Workin' like an oiled-machine, so we don't need babysittin' on this one!", as Bullock had snapped at him a few hours ago. In his opinion, of course, the only oily thing about GCPD was the greasy, blustery and unkempt detective. Still, he was a part of Gotham's finest.  
One hand reached up almost unconsciously and pulled the cowl off of his head, then dropped it to the desktop. Two weeks...and still not a scrap of court-worthy evidence, still not a single lead. It was frustrating, he knew...even the Commissioner had been irritable and irascible of late.  
And if he went, the Knight thought, sinking into a chair, how much longer could any of them last?

"I thought I heard your return, Master Bruce." The polished, accented words emanated from the equally polished butler who now descended the stone steps into the Batcave. One hand held a carefully balanced tray, the other a black suit. "I do believe that this would be most appropriate for the gala tonight...after all," and here the butler's lips twitched, "'Nothing but the best for my niece', if I may quote Mayor Hill."

Bruce couldn't-didn't- want to turn his swivel chair and face the butler, or, for that matter, the cold-hard reminder of his further obligations this evening.  
"In which case, Alfred, you should be the one to attend the gala."  
"No, sir...I don't think that my presence would delight the young lady nearly as much as yours."  
It had been a few weeks ago since Bruce hosted a charity luncheon on the grounds of Wayne Manor...a luncheon attended by all the blue-bloods that the city could muster. Mayor Hill approached his host, adeptly turned the latest blonde "arm-hanger's" attentions onto his nephew, and then spoke in an undertone,  
"Bruce, I'm delighted that you're hosting this luncheon...our police certainly need all the help they can get! Which brings me to my point...my niece Denalynne has recently been after me to host a large city-wide event for our police, and I was hoping that you could help..."  
Help had apparently entailed Waynecorp's biggest meeting venue, a full-out gala, and a promise to escort the would-be "hostess" to the event. Not that he had resented the agreement at the time it was made...but the work-load that had been put on his shoulders as Batman was wearing. And the last thing he wanted to do tonight, he thought again, was to act a fool for the sake of the paparazzi.

"Sir?" Alfred's voice was such that even in that one word, he seemed to intone that he knew exactly what Bruce was thinking. "If I may be so bold, your prompt arrival at the Mayor's home would be better guaranteed if you were to get ready with haste. And...an evening out might do you good."

Bruce knew that Alfred was right, as usual...and it actually might do him a bit of good. There was a chance...just a chance...that Denalynne Hill might actually have a real concern for Gotham's police, and not some ulterior motive to get her hands on a billionaire.

Swiftly standing, the dark knight relieved Alfred of the hanger and, with something vaguely akin to anticipation, prepared to change costumes yet again.

 **VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV**

Mayor Hill's home, although not nearly so large as Wayne Manor, was grand in its own right. There were several vehicles parked out front...doubtless some belonging to Denalynne and her entourage. And of course, the press...

"Mr. Wayne!" A swarm of reporters turned, as a single tidal wave, from the front of the mansion and towards the Billionaire.  
"How long have you known Miss Hill?"

"Was keeping the hostesses' name a secret your idea, or hers?"

"Have you and the Mayor been planning the gala for long?"

"How did Miss Hill react to your offering to be her escort?"

A volley of camera flashes followed each question...at any rate, the questions he could hear. There was a general clamor in the background which was doubtless the sound of dozens of quieter, more easily drowned-out inquiries.

And, as always, he plastered on his best smile and waved cheerily before making his way, still somewhat surrounded, towards the front double-doors.

They swung open before he could quite reach them and light spilled out from the warm interior...and there stood Denalynne Hill.

Bruce had run the gamut of dates-from the childishly excited ones who practically hung on his arms to the glamorous, dignified goddesses who bestowed their affections with an ethereal, lofty air. He'd experienced ones who were rude and cold to everyone but him...

But this would be the first time that the woman in question didn't even seem to notice his presence.

Surprisingly, her attentions seemed to be focused on the press...she could qualify as one of the goddess types, although in Bruce's opinion, there was really one, and only one female who could perhaps qualify for that honor.

Her mint-green gown was simple, yet very flattering, and obviously expensive...as was every other bit of her ensemble- especially a matching stone-work pin which held her upswept blonde hair.  
He searched the faces of some of the reporters and instinctively knew that they were already making notes of Denalynne's apparel. He'd guess the Mayor's niece to be in her late twenties, perhaps even early thirties. She flashed big, buoyant smiles at the cameras, but the smiles didn't reach her eyes...

Bruce shook the thought away. Too much of the detective mindset. Tonight he was Bruce Wayne, just a charitable socialite out for a pleasant evening. No costumes, masks or villains. A smile played at his lips at that thought...

He was at the top of the stairs now, almost next to Miss Hill before she finally turned and regarded him. She smiled quietly and extended a hand.

"Bruce Wayne, I presume? I've been looking forward to tonight for quite some time."

"As have I." He said, hoping that the past hour counted as "quite some time". "Our police have been hard-put lately, and...well, who doesn't enjoy a night out?"

She smiled and slid her arm into his. "Certainly not me. Let's go."

 **VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV**

The ride over was rather quiet. All that Bruce had learned was that she'd only just moved to Gotham from Seddersville, that she was still trying not to get lost in the city's many roads and off-paths, and that she wanted the air in the limo lowered so as not to mess up her hair. Not a very talkative type...which at present, was a relief. The silence might've been awkward under other circumstances, but both Bruce and Denalynne seemed intensely preoccupied. Both looked out of opposite windows, Bruce's hands laid idly across his lap while Denalynne's were primly folded, save for the occasional absentminded pat to her hair and the stone-work pin.

Shedding the detective mindset was, in spite of his earlier resolves, impossible. "But what else is new?" he muttered mentally. He was Batman...it was what the night had forged him into. And life had taught him that leaving that identity behind would take more than a change of costumes...

It wasn't just Thorne's black-market smugglers...lately everything in Gotham was on the rise. If it wasn't Thorne with illegal arms shipments, it was Harvey on the drug scene, and it if wasn't him it was Iseley wreaking toxins and green-righteous havoc on some construction group. Bruce ran a hand through his well-groomed hair in frustration. They couldn't wear him out more if they'd actually planned this...

It took him a moment to realize that he was being stared at, and turning he caught Denalynne's dark eyes on his own.

"You seem so preoccupied, Bruce..." she laughed, waving her hand dismissively. "A billionaire like you must have a lot on your mind, especially if his date's as somber and silent as he is!

Bruce caught himself in the middle of a little nod of agreement. She laughed. "It's fine...I'll try to do better. So...Gotham. You've lived here your whole life?"

"Yes," answered Bruce, almost adding _"too_ _long"_ , and then thought better of it. "At any rate, most of it. I left a few years to study abroad."

"Oh, yes..." she mused, "I seem to have heard of that.."majors in business and applied science, if I recall correctly?"

"That's right!" said Bruce, with a smile...which really stemmed from the thought _"and_ _majors_ _in_ _martial_ _arts,_ _theatricality,_ _combat_ _strategy..."_

At that moment the limo pulled up in front of the WayneCorp conference center. A crowd about thrice the size of that at Mayor Hill's house lined either side of the red carpet.

Bruce stepped out and opened the door for Denalynne, who paused just a moment before accepting his proffered hand.

Soft jazz music floated out into the night, and seemed to transform Denalynne. She straightened and tossed smiles towards either side of the mob of reporters.

"You must be used to them." remarked Bruce.

"No, just taking advantage of the moment, she replied without missing a beat."There aren't too many openings for "center of public attention".

Once inside, the gala was much like any other that Bruce had attended-refreshment tables, lavish decorations meant to correspond with police blues, and a live band providing music for the various couples already swirling on the dance floor. Mayor Hill and several other of Gotham's elite class held up conversation in the various clusters. Denalynne once again surprised Bruce-pleasantly-by suggesting that they split up in order to perform their hosting duties more efficiently. Normally all of Bruce's dates hung onto his suited arms and practically whined to dance every possible moment.

"Good idea." he glanced quickly at the evening's program. "We'd better meet at that front table before the speeches."  
"Sounds good, Bruce." She waved just the tip of her fingers and was gone in an instant.

A group of young policemen immediately approached him. "Mr. Wayne," said the first, a big-built fellow with a practical infestation of freckles on his face, "Just wanted to thank you for doing this for us! Name's Jack, by the way. Jack Auslin."

Trey Weaver", said a young man next to him.  
"And I'm Danny...Daniel Yin."

The last introduction came from a dark haired boy of decidedly oriental descent. Both his features and his accent testified to it.

"A pleasure to meet all of you" said Bruce, offering his hand to each. They grasped it with the typical pleasure and delight that people seemed to get from actually touching a billionaire-except for Daniel, who seemed to be perfectly awestruck and...a little fearful?

At that moment a high-pitched shriek resounded from the microphone

"That's my cue" said Bruce to himself, then, "if you'll excuse me?"  
The young officers smiled in response, and Bruce prepared to take the stage.

 **VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV**

An hour later, and Bruce was almost ready to acknowledge that Alfred had probably been right. After his introduction and opening words, Mayor Hill had spoken- to Bruce's ears, it sounded very like his typical situation of the city addresses, slightly re-vamped for the sake of fitting the GCPD, but at least he was trying.  
It was Denalynne who stole the show. The round of applause that accompanied her on stage was obviously more than typical for a hostess...she'd apparently made the most of her time before the speeches and hit it off with all the attendees. Mayor Hill's speech had been (to Bruce's ears) a recited, typical talk. Denalynne was a master of words, and artfully spun humor and passion together into a speech Bruce half-wished was directed towards him. Too soon, she was wrapping it up.

"I know...I'm not a cop, and the last uniform I wore included a little plaid skirt. But don't think I don't know...and don't think that there's a lot of wonderful, wonderful people in this city who don't know and appreciate the work that you...and you...and you have done for us. To all of Gotham's protectors...I salute you." Her hand, which had been gesturing towards her audience earlier, now snapped to her forehead in a neat salute. And the roar of applause that accompanied her off the stage was long and lasting. She flashed one of her famous smiles towards them, then slid back into her chair and looped her arms around Bruce's neck.

"Did I do alright?"  
"You were perfect. Thank you."

"Thank me? Now, don't you wish you were one of them and could go fight crime so that you could thank me better?"

Slightly taken aback, Bruce allowed the space of silence to be filled in by the band, who'd started playing for dances again. He was about to speak when an officer approached.

"Excuse me Mr. Wayne", he said, and then "Miss Hill? I was hoping to speak to you in private...if you have a minute."

She looked up and smiled archly. "My whole evening's for the boys in blue. Bruce, you don't mind, do you?"

Her hand reached over and gave his a quick squeeze, and then she accompanied the stranger outside.

"You know, I didn't expect that he'd actually show...or that she'd go through with it."  
"What?" Bruce left off following the couple and turned to Officer Montoya, who was standing at his table and watching Denalynne.

"Why, don't you know?"

 **VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV**

 _Thank you so much for reading! I would love to hear all and ANY of your thoughts and critiques...so please review! Thanks!_


	2. Knight on the Town II

"So, what was it you wanted to talk about with me?"

"Oh, stop the pretense, Denalynne...why are you doing this?  
She took a few calculating steps towards the fountain, then turned to face him again.  
"Well, I should hope my speech wasn't that vague..."  
"You know what I mean!" he said, heatedly. "I know you, and you didn't take all the trouble to come down to Gotham and throw together that pep talk JUST to help us out...did you."

Dark eyes met a pair of hardened green. The air seemed to freeze around them.

"Oh Adam...never did think I could do anything right." Denalynne reached up and slid the stone-work pin out of her hair. "Well, maybe you did at one time, or you wouldn't have given me this. A family heirloom, is that what you called it?"

"What I call things obviously doesn't matter to you…things like _'daughter'_ , or _'commitment'_...look, that's not what I called you out here for." His voice faltered.

"Please, Denalynne..." he strode over, placed pleading hands lightly on her shoulders. "Don't do this. Lacey's going to hear about you being here, it'll be all over the news tomorrow. Do you have any idea what a hard time I had telling her she couldn't come with me for the gala? The divorce has done enough without seeing her mother perfectly happy to be partying and canoodling with billionaire playboys!"  
She smiled at the look which came across his face.  
"You're so pitiful, Adam...but I'll play along. So here's the part where I get all remorseful about my behavior?" Her lips curled into a sneer. "And here's where I say that I really, really care what your brat feels?"

 **VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV**

Officer Montoya looked at Bruce inquisitively. "That was Sergeant Adam Branson!"

Bruce's brows furrowed, then he asked though half-knowing the answer. "And she is his...?"

"His ex, and in the worst possible way. Though I suppose you wouldn't have heard about it if you didn't read Seddersville papers at the time. Branson told me all this once, she filed and left him with their daughter. Didn't she say anything? Well," she scoffed "of course she didn't..."

But Bruce wasn't listening to Montoya anymore. His ears picked up the sound of an argument growing rapidly louder each moment.

"Excuse me." he said grimly, and headed for the door. He leaped the steps to the garden, and nearly landed on a small, broken object. A quick glance down revealed it to be the stonework pin.

"Let go of me, you monster!"

"You _selfish,_ _unfeeling_ woman, you-"

Bruce crossed the distance to the grappling couple and tore Adam away from Denalynne. Several other officers raced into the courtyard and grabbed a hold of their comrade. By this time all the other guests were gaping at the scene through every window, staring at the shattered night through French doors.  
And, right away, came the flash of a camera.

 **VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV**

Sergeant Adams had been taken into custody, and the festivities dissipated just as quickly. But the press hadn't. Film would later splash images of the thrashing, infuriated sergeant and of the crying, disheveled hostess across Gotham.  
Bruce had to set his jaw and grimly keep his position beside Denalynne as a medic wrapped a shock blanket around her shoulders and checked for injuries. There were none. Bruce could've told the medic that. But there was no end of crying and shivering, of a perfectly mistreated woman. And Bruce could have predicted that, too.

"H-he j-j-j-just wanted to talk, and I thought that we could finally make it right after the divorce, but then he became _so_ angry..."

Bruce stood up and strode through the small cluster of officers and reporters. Mayor Hill stood on the edge, but quickly approached Bruce, as though to say something.

Not quickly enough though. Perhaps he should have stayed and seen it out.

 _No_ , Bruce thought darkly. He'd seen enough.  
And a moment later the night enveloped its prodigal. 


	3. And the repercussions are

He'd been serving the Waynes ever since his early forties. And since that time he'd transposed his skills as one-time Scotland -Yard agent into equally important things...such as the art of roasting goose, or of making the perfect pot of tea.

Difficult tasks, to be sure. One couldn't afford a slip in precision, as far as he was concerned.  
But, to Alfred, the real work had begun that fateful day when a GCPD car pulled into the front driveway.  
Pulled in, and brought home a shadow of someone who'd left only a few hours ago. It _had_ been Bruce. But for endless days ahead, Alfred found himself faced with an impossible task-to help a broken eight-year-old put back shattered pieces into some semblance of Bruce Wayne. And endless years and pieces ahead began to form a man Alfred could not have predicted.

But he'd learned. They'd _both_ learned.

Last night the car didn't come back. And near as Alfred could tell, neither did his master.

Having served so long as the personal valet of Gotham's celebrated vigilante, the absence was nothing unusual to Alfred. No, the only real mystery was...why?

Descending the staircase the next morning, the old servant's eye caught a pair of Italian leathers, thrown carelessly across the room. Sighing quietly, he put them away, then opened the door for the morning's paper and glanced down at it.

Mystery solved.

 **VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV**

He found Bruce, much as he'd expected, in the cave. And, as he'd also expected, the large computer's screen was already filled with the morning's news.

"It would seem that the evening did not go as planned, Master Bruce. Miss Hill apparently had ulterior motives for her generosity." 

No answer. The smiling reporter on screen, Gleason, filled the silence with a sordid account of Sgt. Adam Branson manhandling his ex.

Bruce raised himself slowly and lifted up his own wrinkled copy of the news.

" 'Gotham City Police Disgrace' ", he read. "Would you believe it, Alfred? She abandoned Adam and their daughter three years ago. Apparently he had some anger control issues...and she claimed domestic abuse."  
"From what I've ascertained of Miss Hill, Sir, I can't say that I would blame him."  
"He applied for a transfer", Bruce went on, "to Gotham and has since been rebuilding their lives."

The words hung in the air. Both men looked at the computer in silence.

"I am so sorry, Master Bruce."

Bruce continued staring, statue-like, at the screen.

 **VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV**

"I'm afraid you won't want to see him now...not like this, Master Wally."  
"Oh, come _on_ , Jeeves! It's been a week! Supes is getting worried about him...and really, I'd rather not get back to the Watchtower and tell them I didn't even get past Batman's front door!"

Alfred narrowed his eyes at the untidy young redhead leaning in the doorway.  
It wasn't as though the butler hadn't had to deal with Bruce's troubled moods before…..

But this one was different. And the difference was wearing even on his unflappable nature. Over the past week he'd had to take dozens of calls, and with some he'd had to come up with dozens of creative excuses for his unavailable master.

Sickness. Business contracts. A spontaneous cruise in the Virgin Islands.

None of said excuses would work, of course, with certain other parties. Certain other _caped,_ _masked_ parties who happened to know his master better. Really, he'd been avoiding most of those inquiries, hoping that Bruce would finally react. But he hadn't, and now the problem had come to the door.

"Alfred, we're his friends. We need to see him." Diana's eyes were full of concern, and pierced the old butler. "Don't tell me that this will pass. I can see the truth in your face. Let us at least try?"

Alfred knew Diana from previous encounters. Superman couldn't have chosen a better pair to come after Bruce...and he knew it. Diana had never really said a word, but it was blatantly obvious that she cared very much about Bruce. The sentiment hadn't been returned, something Alfred rather regretted. To Bruce, Diana was an admirable, more-than-worthy member of the league. But nothing more...

And of course, young Wallace. Childish, carefree, brazen and ridiculous Wallace whose outlook on life tended to be very, very contagious.

Alfred relented.

"He doesn't talk, and doesn't leave the cave, except to run himself ragged as Batman every night. I truly hope that you can..."

He trailed off and opened the passage to the cave. Both descended, but Diana gave Alfred's hand a squeeze before disappearing into the darkness.

 **VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV**

And so he hoped, but was not surprised to see a very shaken Wally stagger out of the Batcave's entrance. "Alfred! W-what the..?" His head kept shaking and he gesticulated wildly in the direction he'd come from, then dropped the arm limply to his side.  
"I-I'm sorry, Alfred..."

Diana slowly joined Wally, and didn't say a word. But she didn't need to. Her eyes said it all. Flash impulsively gave her a sideways hug, then turned to Alfred.  
"Take care of yourself-and take care of him?"

He nodded, and both left. Alfred shut the door behind them and sighed.

"Something has to change, Sir," he whispered. "things **cannot** go on like this!"

 **VVVVVVVVVVVVVVV**

 _ **A**_ _uthor's note: Thank you so much for reading! I apologize about the lack of nice chapter divides previously, I couldn't make the publishing software work with my documents. Hopefully the problem is fixed now!_

 _Please, please review…I'd love to hear your feedback._


	4. Asgard

"It is COLD out here, and you lot did not even allow me a cloak! Mother will be _furious_ if I come home sick!"

"Oh come, Volstagg! A little cold must not deter you from"—a young blonde lifted his head and breathed in the frozen night—"adventure!"

"Well," said a dark-haired boy to his right, in meaningful tones, " _some_ would **not** consider a truant run in the middle of winter wilderness an adventure...unless he was **Thor**."

"Right you are, Hogun!" grinned an impish boy with a head of tawny-flaxen hair. He flung away the stick that he'd been using to draw a starting line, then slung an arm around Thor's shoulder. "And _none_ would be so foolish as to follow such a one...unless, of course..."

"The one was **me**!" Thor finished. He smiled sweetly at Volstagg's and Hogun's irritation, then removed Fandral's adoring arm.

The moon, not full but flying with shoulder half turned, lit up the barren landscape. Snow sparkled in a smooth, undisturbed sea of white...undisturbed but by the four young boys preparing to race on the threshold of Asgard's Wild Fells.

Having good friends often means that one's ideas and plans hold great weight. The maddest escapade becomes a thing to honor, the most foolish thought sage words on which to muse.

And being a prince, in this case Thor Odinson of the All-Father, brings a certain dread of resisting to said friends.

This Thor knew when he first decided that, in middlenight, the four of them—Volstagg, Fandral, Hogun and himself- should dare to slip out and race on the Wild Fell.

Fandral, about as wild and buoyant as Thor himself, was all for the plan. Now it remained to convince Hogun—the wise, more sober one of the four—and Volstagg —who though not lacking in spirit, also did not lack in a more dour view of illegal activity—to go to bed cloaked and dressed, and to be ready for the signal.

Hogun had agreed, and was ready when Fandral's sling-shot pebble hit his window.

But Volstagg was a different story.

"I have the horses!" Thor announced in a whisper as he rode up, then squinted down at the two boys. "Still here? Where's Volstagg?"

"In a gluttonous sleep, I guess." said Fandral irritably. "That's the tenth pebble I've let fly!"

"Well, then let us just leave him!"

"No...I'll climb up and bring him down. Just give me four minutes."

Hogun was an expert at climbing and scaling even the most impossible obstacles.. But to try and do so without a chance of waking his friend's father, the irascible Lord Dorvand, was another thing.

"He'll not make it in four minutes," said Fandral as he followed Hogun's ascent. "How will he get Volstagg out so quickly?"

The answer came when, after a muffled yelp, Volstagg fell out the window and landed ignominiously in a snow-heap.

A moment later saw the four flying as silently as they could across the paths, cloaks streaming from behind like banners- on three riders, anyway. Apparently the fourth had not had time to get his.

 **VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV**

"Go!" they shouted simultaneously, and at once began to race. The plot had been executed, the word given, and not even the moon could see them with her back turned. Drunk with the revelry of their freedom, they threw themselves with wild abandon through drifts, down icey-slick hills, across the half-frozen lakes—and into purest boyhood bliss.

 **VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV**

 _Years_ _later._

A cloaked figure skulked in shadows, then quickly glanced up the vine-covered wall to a lattice window. Most insecure, of course. Any clever fellow could easily climb the ivy, then slip the window-latch.

And he was not just any clever fellow. A moment later, and the intruder was over the ledge and into the bedroom of Asgard's crown prince.

"Wake, my friend! I have something to tell you."

The figure completely ensconced in red blankets groaned and shifted as response.

Fandral was about to repeat his statement, adding to it the force of a pillow, when—

"This had better be important." Thor sat up, allowing the blankets to fall from his broad shoulders, then met Fandral's sparking eyes.

"What! Art not in the mood for fun!?"

"The fun of sleep and rest, yes. Princely duties are quite tiring." With that the disturbed lay back down.

"Pah! You have become an old woman...tis' young women **_I_** seek tonight!"

"Tis' young women," came a muffled voice, "that you seek _every_ night."

"Well, I have exquisite tastes that must be satis'fied. And your tastes accompany me to any middlenight bonfire that boasts roast game, barrels of mead and wine, three tables of the sweetmeats of Merigd, match fights..."

His voice had taken on a luring tone and faded enticingly. He looked keenly at the red mound. A frustrated—or longing—groan came from it, and in a minute Thor emerged.

"So, where is it we go tonight?"

"Where the Valkyrie have chosen," said Fandral, snatching up appropriate attire and tossing it in his friend's direction. "Niflheim."

Thor pulled the tunic on roughly. "Your women always choose _good_ places for their feasts...last time it was Gjallarbru!"

"All the more reason," said Fandral brightly, ignoring the sarcasm, "for you to come. I do need _someone_ to protect me while I woo my ladies."

Thor smiled, then picked up Mjolnir.

"Let us be off."

 **VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV**

Being at the center of all worlds, Niflheim was easily reached without the Bifrost—provided Mjolnir, or the steeds of the Valkyrie themselves, served as transportation.

Over a thousand-thousand leagues they sped, at a blinding rate, through the light and dark of underground and Helheim.

And soon they stood in Niflheim.

It was beautiful, in spite of its precarious location near the domain of Hel. The land ever bore the paint of golden afternoon light, made even more soft and gentle by a constant billow-cloud floating over the purple mountains. Yggdrasil's roots lifted up from the earth at various intervals, filling the forest with awesome wooden arches and knolls.

The two had no sooner landed on the turf when a song greeted them….

Edda. She was the most gentle and delicate of her Valkyrie sisters, if such words could be applied to one of that band. Today though, armor, spears and shields had been traded for dresses woven of the very heaven.

"Fandral...and son of All-Father!" She bowed, and smiled at them.

"Welcome."

Fandral blushed scarlet for a second, but his nature soon overcame it and before long he had three very attentive women about him. Thor joined the crowd that had gathered around the bonfire, and then joined Volstagg at the sweetmeats tables—the mass of cakes disappeared shortly thereafter, though each claimed that he was the one chiefly responsible for laying it bare. The wine and mead flowed. Sigurdi's viol called forth the dances with music only drowned by the shouts and yell of fighters and watchers alike...

And that was when Thor saw Zhildur. Silently, the rogue Valkyrie approached him, smiling coquettis'hly.

Hers was skin of smoothest gray slate. She seemed to float, rather than walk, and her hair and garments swirled like smoke. And her presence, as far as the prince was concerned, was as welcome as a sigh of death.

"Odinson of the All-Father. I have not seen you since the year of your black thunder! How fares it with your family?"

Thor turned and ignored her, carelessly reaching forward a hand to rip off a haunch of roast meat.

"What, Odinson? Didst not _swear_ to receive me better when last we met? And tis' not often you come to Niflheim!"

"I come" he said languidly, through a mouthful, "when there is a worthy cause to call me."

"Oh, yes," Zhildur spat scornfully. "Full stomachs seem to be a worthy cause indeed...for those of Aesir. Your poor sister sought more, and look what became of her!"

It was a slap on old wounds, a challenge. Thor put down the haunch and, a smile stretching his lips, slowly turned to face her.

Fandral ran forward and attempted to pull his friend back. "Thor, ignore her. You cannot afford this confrontation!"

Searing memories flew before his mind's eye— _Brunnhilde,_ _Fenrir,_ _the_ _order_ _to_ _hunt_ _down_ _Asgard's_ _princess,_ _the_ _silent_ _screams_ _of_ _Frigga..._

And all due, he felt, to this **_demon_** of a woman...

"Yes Fandral! Of course he must not. And what sort avenger could he be?" She strutted before him, tossed her locks in taunt. "In weakness he'd fight women when the true downfall of Lady Brunnhilde _yet_ _lives_ _upon_ _Lyngvi_! Come Odinson, does it not burn thy spirit that Fenrir yet lives...and she does not?"

Mingled murmurs of surprise and cries of outrage erupted from the gathering, and as one they turned to hear their prince's answer. But he was frozen, stricken as though made of stone.

"Thor! The All-Father forbids any going to Lyngvi!" Fandral pulled him around and unhappily took note of an all-too-familiar gleam in his friend's eye. "Think, Thor... things **cannot** go on like this! For mercy's name, forsake this madness!"

But Madness herself, in all her staggering beauty, held Thor's mind, burned his soul with her amber eyes and his skin with her frozen hands. One of these moved up and stroked his beard, reveling in the excitement roiling out of him.

"Thor Odinson...do you dare?"

He shifted his gaze just a moment to meet Fandral's, then looked back.

"My lady," he said, smiling coldly. "I have only awaited your invitation."

The crowd stilled in tense, fearful silence. Thor turned to his friends, a grim trio at the front of the gathering.

"Friends...we ride to Lyngvi!"

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 _Author's Note: I absolutely love mythology, and really enjoyed incorporating as many elements of Norse folklore into these Asgard-based chapters as possible. Did I do it right? I'd love to hear your thoughts! Please review and critique!_


	5. Turning All to Black

It was a road they had never traveled before—the original binding of Fenrir had happened many years before their birth. And, as Fandral, Hogun and Volstagg, in turn, had attempted to point out, the road to Amsvartnir was forbidden.

Thick, gray clouds, impenetrable as stone, covered the sky and filled the land with a cold, hard light. Nothing grew on the black-rock fields. A single crow flew over them, a spearhead through the sky.

The horses were urged faster, ever faster. And after mounting the crest of a small hill, Amsvartnir lay before them. It was so gray, and so still, that save for their knowing it was a lake it could have been taken for a mud-flat. Rising out of the middle, an aphotic disk of blackness, was the island Lyngvi, hemmed in on one side by a dark hill.

The four dismounted. Thor pulled out Mjolnir and began to spin it until it was a mere blur.

"You wait for me, here. I'll call if it goes badly."

And with that he flew forward.

A dull rumble of thunder resounded from somewhere leagues overhead. His boots made a dull crunch in the black sand. Eyes narrowed, he looked for his foe.

"I have been wondering when you would come."

The voice was low and dark. Thor whirled around, only to see the large hill suddenly start to move and stretch. A pair of fire-red eyes blinked open and fixed upon him. Fenrir _was_ the dark hill—massive, a very mountain. The wind ruffled the sleek onyx hide of the beast like so many snakes. But to lie down and stand was all Fenrir could do, and Thor now saw the cord Gleipnir wrapped in a complex webwork between the creature's legs.

"Do you come here to kill me, Odinson? I felt your intent even from Niflheim. You would not stand there so bravely, young one...were I loosed!"

The vague, echoing sounds of voices resounded over the water. Doubtless the Warriors Three were more than able to hear every word this beast was saying, and did not relish the implication of his words.

Fenrir smiled, revealing serrated yellow fangs and a forked tongue. "You stand there with no fear, Odinson. No awe at all?

"One ought to be fearful and awesome to inspire any such thing!" snorted the prince mockingly.

"Brunnhilde seemed to think I was, young one!"

Thor flung Mjolnir forward suddenly. It flew between the creature's legs, into the bands of Gleipnir—and utterly severed them. Fenrir jumped free, and Mjolnir flew back into the hand of its master.

There was a moment of deadly silence. Then, deafening roars as man and beast lunged towards each other.

A canopy of lightning shrieked across the heavens, tearing apart the clouds and pulling down a torrent of freezing water upon the fighters. Thor summoned down a blaze of the power and sent it, full force, into the creature's chest. For a moment the wolf stumbled, but then with a howl which must've shaken all nine realms, he caught the prince between his jaws and leapt across the lake with him.

The three warriors stared at the monster's rapid approach.

"Men," said Volstagg. "I think we ought to draw arms."

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It was said that the All-Father's eye never ceased to see all things, even when in the deepest Odinsleep. And with the charge of overseeing and protecting Asgard, he had come to know it, over the ages, as truly as his own blood.

Therefore he felt the enraged winds and earth-rending disorder approaching long before it hit. The eternal sea under the rainbow bridge began to heave in towering waves, and the sky spiraled into a cruel shade.

"All-Father!" gasped the general who had just burst in. "The Fates are angry! What has happened?"

Odin shut his eyes and breathed deeply—then sharply, as though from a pang.

"A great wrong. Summon our warriors. We must travel the Bifrost and remedy this!"

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Moments later Sleipnir stood, saddled, before a crowd of some several hundred warriors. Odin mounted and began the charge, but was thrown backwards by an invisible force. But he cared not, nor did anyone else at that moment—

All eyes were fixed on the Bifrost, which trembled and spun violently. And suddenly the heaving sea gave up the last thing anybody had wanted to see…

Fenrir grabbed at the edge of the Rainbow Bridge, then pulled himself up onto it. Bloodied and ragged, the animal howled rage against the equally bloodied four who now stood between him and the kingdom.

" ** _NOW!_** " screamed Thor. Volstagg and Fandral at once raced forward, and Thor called upon the lightning to burn the creature's eyes. Thus tormented, Fenrir was helpless to avoid the slices into his crucial tendons which buckled his forelegs. Thor ceased the lightning and smiled through a split lip...then pulled back his arm for the final strike.

Suddenly a horrible, ripping sensation pulled through his body. He couldn't move—couldn't even see properly. The world swam around him. The fallen shape of Fenrir was dissipating, swift as smoke from a candle. Then it was gone.

The sensation lifted and Thor collapsed onto the bridge. His friends were in much the same state.

And that's when he realized Mjolnir was no longer in his hand.

It was in his father's.

Odin looked ages older, and staggered a step. But his voice was still strong.

"Take them away until my pleasure." And without a glance behind, he strode away.

A wave of nausea finally overtook the prince's beleaguered body, and he knew no more.

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 _As always, please leave your thoughts and reviews!_


	6. Collision

_**Author's Note**_ **:** Just to let y'all know, I'm PUMPED to see all the stats on visitors and views! I hope you guys are enjoying this story. That said, _**I'd REALLY appreciate feedback, story suggestions and reviews**_! I'm open to pretty much any ideas you have, and will do my best to incorporate characters you'd like to see. This is my first fanfiction, and I don't know what I need to improve on! _**You're my readers, please sound off!**_ It'll help me with direction and more frequent updates on this story. (There's your incentive, hopefully! )

 _That's it! Now, on to chapter six-_

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As Bruce had expected, the days following the disastrous gala steadily became worse. For the daytime, at least, he didn't have to masquerade as his billionaire self. But the night waged war against him furiously enough. And he fought back with a vengeance. He always had, but it was different now—For now every criminal put away was one who could not hurt people like Denalynne. And of course, she wasn't the only law-abiding, _upstanding_ citizen of Gotham who perhaps deserved to be behind bars just as much as Penguin, Two-Face or Scarecrow.

 _What is it really all for?_ He wondered to himself, channeling his frustration into each blow landed on Deadshot.

He'd caught a rumor that the sniper was scouting the downtown for vantage points. Honestly, it must've been a huge reward to lure the punk into Batman's territory—after all, he and the Dark Knight had _**'met'**_ before.

" _ **Alrightalrightalright!**_ Enough, I'll talk!" Panic laced the gunman's voice as he desperately tried to stop the rain of blows.

Batman narrowed his eyes.

"I'm listening. Who was your target? And who hired you?"

There was a moment of uncertain silence. Apparently Deadshot hadn't been through this before. Pity. When the silence persisted, Bruce grabbed his victim's ankle and began dragging him to the edge of the rooftop.

"AAGH! NO! It-it was Jerret at the shipping plant! He's had a thing against the Commissioner and had enough with Gordon not firing that creep Branson! It's the truth, I _swear_ , that's EVERYTHING!" he shrieked as Batman proceeded to tie him up, and continued to drag him to the edge.

"No, not everything."

With a gut-wrenching wail Deadshot flew over the edge and began hurtling down seventy stories—then stopped with a jerk as the cable around him pulled taut.

"Is there anything worthwhile saving there?" The knight glared down at the blubbering criminal, then strode away.

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Alfred was waiting as the Batmobile pulled to a full halt.

"How was your evening, Sir?"

"Typical." He strode over to the computer and prepared to tackle the Thorne case. Again.

"I have your dinner ready. I'll bring it—"

"No, thank you, Alfred. I'm not hungry tonight..."

He hadn't been hungry any night the past week. Alfred's brows furrowed in concern as he watched the object of his concern lean his head against his hand, as though its weight was unbearable. But there was nothing he could do.

"I'll be upstairs if you need me."

A moment later, and Bruce was alone in the cave. Three hours went by with no progress. He'd searched and cross-referenced every file on the man. This wasn't his style, and never—NEVER—had Thorne been in something this deep. Something did not add up…but wha—

An ear-shattering eruption rocked the world sideways and Bruce was thrown from his chair. The loud report echoed deafeningly throughout the cavern. He scrambled to get his footing and stood, immediately ready to take emergency measures in case of a cave-in. The eastern end of his haunt, winding and twisting with passages issued out a cloud of dust and rock-debris...the former filling the cave, the latter raining out in a spew of pebbles and small stones.

What had caused it? He'd made a thorough inspection of the cave back when he was first developing it as his lair. The rough rock walls were solid and secure, all the way through. There was no indicator of a current storm, or of fault-line activity...but then, what could have...?

Just then he heard a groan. A very _human_ groan. Bruce's mind immediately jumped into battle-mode, alert and taut as wire. His took in his surroundings with narrowed eyes, as his razor sharp mind began working through suspects. Someone who could just break through the cave...possibly by means of explosives.

Bane. Killer Croc. But if they had found an entrance into the cave, it meant that they already knew who their masked enemy was. The Dark Knight quickly tapped a small com-link which connected directly to one on Alfred's person, sending a message, via Morse-code, for the polished butler to get off of the premises as quickly and safely as possible. Then, mouth set into a tight line, he turned on his flashlight and entered the crash-zone. A faint, ominous rumbling reverberated through the cave, and Bruce almost unconsciously took note that the cave's solid integrity might've been compromised in more than one way. His heart-rate, as opposed to quickening, had slowed...a deliberate move to help him maintain his composition.

Although he would scarce have admitted it, the billionaire was actually _grateful_ for this intrusion. The stress and anger of the past several weeks was grating on his mind, and every fiber in him wanted to lash out and strike.

He noticed that none of the stones were charred or singed, as they might've been in an explosion, but that didn't mean much...the stones directly touched by the blast might be further in, or buried.

The groan, again. And this time, just to his right. The Dark Knight whirled and his flashlight caught, for a fraction of a second, the figure of a man. The next second something akin to a boulder smashed into Bruce and sent him flat on his back.

It wasn't Bane, or Croc, or anybody else he knew. What he _did_ know was that the intruder was either clever and skilled enough to hide his presence from the Dark Knight, or was merely the hapless beneficiary of said Knight's momentarily distracted state of mind.

And he was _strong_. That last thought was uppermost in Batman's mind as he grappled furiously with the stranger who was, at various moments, on top of him. Just then a blinding blow was landed on his temples, providing the stranger just enough time to pin down his foe, knee on chest, hands in a death-lock around his neck.

"Speak, before I crush your neck. Who are you, and what realm is this?"

 _Realm?_

"Sorry, but around here I ask the questions."

A sharp electric current surged from the cowl and into the stranger's body. With a yell he fell back, and the Knight took advantage of the moment to swing his knees up into the other's jaw, using the momentum of the swing to execute a back roll. In a moment he was up...but then, so was the stranger. Both men were in fighting stances and regarding each other venomously.

"You shall regret lifting your hand against me, Dark One," said the stranger grandly. "For I trove there is scarce a creature in the nine realms that has not heard tell of Thor Odinson in battle."

Bruce narrowed his eyes. "There is scarcely a creature _anywhere_ who doesn't know what happens to intruders. Why are you here? Who sent you?"

There was just a moment of silence...almost an awkward silence as the stranger considered the question. Bruce studied him.

There was nothing extraordinary...no equipment or weapons. Black pants and an equally simple full-sleeve tunic for apparel. He was tall, and powerfully built. His eyes—a startlingly familiar shade of blue—bored into the Dark Knight's own. Light, unkempt hair flowed freely down to his shoulders, and a beard and mustache of the same shade framed his finely cut jaw.

And speaking of cut...the Knight noticed for the first time, a cool moisture on his cheek—but it was not his blood. The stranger, on top everything else, was _wounded_. Not very recently either. Bruce noted the darker patches staining the man's clothing.

A well-aimed strike in those places would be advantageous...might even end this undesired encounter.

The intruder took a step forward. Bruce took a step to the side. They circled each other.

Then, suddenly, the stranger spoke.

"Once more, who art thou, and what realm are we in?"

"And, once more, I **don** —"

The stranger charged, but Bruce easily turned, and, manipulating the man's weight, threw him over his shoulder and into the rock wall, then followed up with a flying kick. The stranger's hand shot out, seized the Knight's ankle and foot, which were merely inches from his face, and threw him aside—then lunged again.

Bruce found that in some aspects, this fellow was not unlike other foes he'd faced before...brawn and power. Batman, however, had the advantage of years of martial arts-training, of razor-sharp strategy and cunning to back up his own strength. He'd always been able to out-think his opponents.

But never before had he had an opponent who _absorbed_ his every move! It seemed as though this... _Odinson_ , although a complete stranger to the martial arts that Bruce himself was so familiarly acquainted with, was privy to another form of war, one that Bruce hadn't encountered. A form that somehow trained its devotees to adopt and perceive their enemies' style to the point that they could actually predict movements. Bruce found himself against a fighting force who seemed to be learning his particular strengths and weaknesses better than criminals he'd faced off with again and again over the years.

They'd been fighting now for...how long? Suddenly, at the edge of a drop-off the ground crumbled under the weight of the other man and he fell backwards into the pit. Bruce quickly looked over the edge for a sign of life, but it was too late. The cave was filled with drop-offs like this, and, as the fight had worked both the warriors to a section of the cave that Bruce was not as familiar with, he could only assume that this was yet another bottomless pit.

Just then a savage jerk robbed the Knight of his footing. His back landed on the rock edge and the stones tore through his gloves as his grabbed at the ledge, slipped, fell—

And then hit bottom. The drop off wasn't, after all, nearly as deep as he'd anticipated. Really, it was just another floor. And so on the fight progressed, sending both men backwards into sub-cave.

"Hast had enough yet?"

"Getting tired, ' _Odinson_ '?"

A rock-like fist cracked into Bruce's jaw and made him see a flash of white.

 _Must've been a raw nerve_ , he thought grimly, his body automatically executing a hard clap on either side of the stranger's head with a following upper-cut. That, at any rate, downed him for the time being. The Knight lost no time in throwing himself over his opponent and putting him into a lock.

"And—and how...long—" gasped the intruder, struggling and writhing under Batman's grasp, "do you think you shall be able to hold me down?"

"Only a little longer than you can keep fighting!" Bruce spat through clenched teeth, and secretly hoped that was true.

Normally he'd have used one arm to hold the lock, the other to quickly knock out his foe...but now it was all he could do to keep the lock with both hands.

This wretch seemed to know _exactly_ which muscles were crucial to the hold, and was making use of each twist to exacerbate and agonize those muscles.

How much longer could he really hold on?

And just that suddenly, the downed man froze, his head perfectly still, staring. Bruce quickly followed his gaze and saw—

 _Of course…_

The hammer lay embedded into a pile of rubble, its stout handle pointed, enticingly, towards Bruce and he knew only one thing—

He couldn't afford to let Thor get his hands on it! In one fluid motion he rolled off of Thor and made a lunge towards the legendary hammer. Black gloved-fingers closed on the handle at the same time that a set of bruised, cut fingers closed on his ankle.

Not that Mjolnir would do this dark one any good, but Thor could feel his strength ebbing. This conflict had to end, and _**now**_.

A sharp twist of his wrist, and he smiled at the ensuing 'pop'. Bruce flinched from the unexpected pain shooting through his ankle, and with a kick he quickly staggered to his feet—

And lifted the hammer. 

Outwardly Bruce remained as stoic as ever, eyes narrowed to gleaming slits at his finally vanquished foe. But inwardly, his mind was spinning faster than ever before. A new, electrifying sense of power pulsated through his every fiber, and he wished to bring down the heavens in bolts of white heat, to break through mountains...  
Mjolnir the Thunderbolt in his hand, the god of thunder in his cave…and said god's face was a mask, frozen in a meld of shock, of horror….and of despair?

The fallen prince seemed a thousand miles away. His eyes glazed over, sending knight, hammer and cave into a blur. And then, with a wracked groan, he fainted.

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Please leave reviews and feedback! Thanks!


	7. Split-Pea Soup

**_Author's note:_** _A big t_ _hanks to all my readers...seeing those story view statistics is encouraging! Now, **if ONLY you'd LEAVE REVIEWS!** :P Seriously though, I really would appreciate hearing whether I've captured Thor's and Bruce's personalities correctly._

 _Please comment below!_

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"Master Bruce, I simply don't know how you continue to outdo yourself with the quality of house-guests you bring home."

Peeling an icepack off of his eye, the Dark Knight grimaced.

"I'm afraid I can't take credit for this one, old friend….he brought himself home."

The butler straightened up, pulled latex gloves off of his hands and gathered his medical equipment.

"You were able to take care of the wounds?"

"Yes sir. A few were rather severe, but frequent dressing changes—and maintaining those stitches- should take care of them. I must say, I'm surprised he wasn't tended to sooner. If he is who you say he is, something went terribly amiss to let this much infection set in." Alfred cast a sideways glance at the unconscious figure on the medical table.

"He doesn't look much more deified than you, if I might say so, sir."

"There aren't very many other explanations, Alfred. And...there's this." Bruce set the massive hammer down on the desk of his computer. "Pick it up."

Alfred stepped forward and clasped the handle in his palm, then pulled. Nothing. He fixed both hands on it and gave a much stronger pull...but it didn't budge.

"According to the legends, sir, only Thor could wield this hammer..."

"And yet..." Bruce extended his index finger and pushed against the handle. Mjolnir slid yieldingly across the keys.

Both men were silent for a moment, then Alfred cocked his eyebrow at his master. Bruce shrugged in response to the unspoken question, a muscle spasm ensuring he immediately regretted the action.

"Only one man knows, Alfred—and I don't mind if he takes a while to wake up. Bruce pushed himself out of his chair stiffly, then strode towards a small refrigeration unit. Fingering through the vials within, he pulled out a small jar and tossed it at Alfred.

"Enhanced muscle relaxant. Infuse a hundred mils of this, and it'll be at peak by the time I get back."

"Get back, sir?"

If Batman heard the note of disapproval in Alfred's voice, there was no indication as he recostumed.

"My leads said that Thorne, Duquesne and a new player are meeting in-"He glanced at the clock grimly- "twenty minutes. Our friend here doesn't appear to be anywhere near consciousness. I don't think you're in danger for a while yet."

"Unless it's from a ruptured ulcer, sir." Said Alfred sadly, proffering the cowl to Bruce. The battered billionaire instantly transformed into Gotham's dark knight—and with the resounding roar of the Batmobile's thrusters, he too disappeared.

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There was something about the scent of a hearty split pea soup— apparently something very like a fur-lined coat. In one breath it was a dowdy backwoods accessory….but in another breath, it was a high-end fashion statement. The earthy notes, lightly accented by the smokiness of ham, was not a typical stake-out scent. Batman wasn't complaining though—the usual squalor of soaked, filled dumpsters and slummish alleys had borne him company just one too many nights of late.

And at this point, he'd be willing to find the key to the latest rise of crime anywhere—even in the hearty bowl that Thorne was now digging into.

The restaurant was conspicuous—located on the 75th floor of one of Gotham's larger downtown buildings, it shone like the top of a lighthouse. Bruce doubted that there was a single shadow present in the establishment. A move to ensure that certain vigilantes could not remain hidden, perhaps. And it might have worked…except that the master of the night created his own darkness, his own shadows. As things had turned out, he had a perfect vantage point now to see and hear everything.

It was at that moment that Duquesne made his appearance—which was only made more impressive by the fact that he'd turned up in a crisp three-piece. The maître-de, waitresses and even some of the furniture seemingly shrunk to doll-size as he strode past, then took a seat in an altogether inadequate chair at Thorne's table. Thorne seemed…startled? Not too many people would have noticed the tell-tale fumble of his signature card-play, but it was apparent to Batman that whatever else this meeting might be, expected was not one of them. The two men glared venomously at each other.

Duquesne broke the silence.

"Guess I shouldn't be surprised. I'd expect _**that**_ choice—"he gestured to the bowl disdainfully, "from the mind of a man who thought he'd steal my arms shipment and resell it to my buyers without any consequences!"

"Doubtless I could have pulled it off…without consequences from _you_ , especially, had I actually had to resort to that." Thorne chewed deliberately on a spoonful of soup, then added: "But unlike you, I've actually moved up in the world from the weaponry market."

"What kind of idiot do you take me for? The last hit in my—MY—domain had _**you**_ written all over it!"

"Then you could use a lesson in reading, as well as in arranging meeting places." He nodded at the restaurant. "If you brought me here for some kind of petty revenge scheme, you've chosen quite the stage."

"What the—" Duquesne's hand immediately went for his concealed holster. "I didn't arrange for this place!"

"Relax gentlemen. _I_ did."

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 **Please review! I'm _THIRSTING_ ;) for your opinions, critiques, suggestions etc. And for those of you who want to do battle, I'll even take flames! :) **


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